


As My Witness

by xohazy



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: College AU, F/M, Murder, Violence, You'll See Okay?, it gets wild
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:35:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22813183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xohazy/pseuds/xohazy
Summary: You're crazy, toxic, and above all, dramatic.So what else can you do when your long-term boyfriend cheats on you but run away across state lines in the middle of the night?A chance encounter with a certain bastard might be everything you need to escape your old life- or it might be your worst nightmare.You're running with the big dogs now. Hope you can handle it.
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton & Reader, Ramsay Bolton & You, Ramsay Bolton/Reader, Ramsay Bolton/You, Robb Stark & Reader, Robb Stark & You, Robb Stark/Reader, Robb Stark/You
Comments: 4
Kudos: 31





	1. Runaways and Realizations

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CrowKing](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrowKing/gifts).



> So, this is my first published fic! I have so many wonderful influences to thank for that, seriously y'all are all sorts of talented and amazing.  
> But this particular fic I would like to dedicate to my darling CrowKing, who gave me the confidence to put my work out there back when I was just a shy lil anon who needed the advice from one of my most admired authors. Thank you for your faith, I hope I can do it some justice <3  
> 

You toyed with the furs on your throw, running your fingers anxiously from the base of the hairs to the tip without actually ripping them off. A furry blanket, you decided, was a bad idea for someone like you. Every second was a battle between your brain and your slender fingers, itching to yank the strands out one by one. If you had a little less impulse control, you’d probably pluck it bare. Someone like Margy, you reasoned, could handle a furry throw. She would lay it neatly over her duvet every morning and never think twice about it. Margy was elegant, though. Where you had adorned your half of the room with the blanket, matching pillows and fur rug, and a string of fairy lights illuminating your wall of posters, polaroids, and sketches, Margy had opted for a neatly knitted cream throw her grandmother had made for her and rose embroidered pillows. Her side of the room looked like an Ikea setup, complete with framed photographs and folded clothes.

The red heat from the growing sunrise building up behind your eyelids was becoming too much to bear. You sighed in defeat and fluttered your eyes open, letting them adjust to the light before turning to rest on your side and gaze at Margy. She was laying on her stomach, halfway dressed for school but distracted by her phone. In her left hand, the glowing device illuminated her worried expression. In her right, a nail polish brush was left unattended, a bubble of flamingo pink paint building up before it dripped onto her beloved cream throw. She didn't notice, she just stared at her phone.

“Margy!” You warned as you threw your duvet off of you and padded over to where she was laying. You grabbed the bottle from her dorm-mandated desk and quickly capped the polish, reaching instead for a half-full water bottle and your own bath towel as you dabbed the paint off. She groaned as she sat up and did her best to help you, finishing off with a splash of nail polish remover before she tossed the throw into her hamper. “What had you so distracted?” You dared to ask, dreading her reply as you sat beside her and watched her draw her eyebrows together.

“Last night-” she started, and you smacked your hand against her bed.

“I knew it!” You yelled, standing up only to feel her cool fingers on your shoulders, gently pushing you back down.  
“It wasn’t Jeyne,” she said softly. You held your breath as you glanced from her bright blue eyes to her phone. She picked it up and opened her Instagram, typing Robb’s username into the search bar as his familiar profile slid into view. You looked at her quizzically.

There weren’t any new pictures posted on his profile, only the ones you’d seen before on Robb or Margy’s phones. His mother’s day post of him and Cat, his throwback pictures of him and Theon, his chubby husky Grey Wind. The post from the previous night wasn’t even _on_ Instagram, it had been floating around Robb’s Snapchat, the only social media you bothered to keep. It’d been long deleted by then, that horrid flash of his arms wrapped around some brunette’s waist and his face pressed against hers. You’d only assumed it was Jeyne after the events that transpired that past summer, and yet, here was Margy, pulling up one of Robb’s jockey shirtless selfies and tapping her flamingo pink nail at a comment that said “ _Mine_ ”. With a heart and everything.

“Her name is Talisa,” Margy explained quickly. She began dumping information on you about the girl; she was a nursing student, her family was loaded, she was in Robb’s grade (a year above you and Margy), and they had met in history class, which they took together.

Truthfully, you’d lost interest. There was a time when you’d have Margaery and her brother, Loras, use all of their popularity and uncanny ability to be the center of all gossip to dish out any dirt you could find on this girl. You would’ve texted Talisa, you probably would’ve clung to Robb more desperately than ever in an attempt to win his affections back. It was what you did. You were the crazy girlfriend; everyone knew it. They all saw how you acted last summer with Jeyne. They were probably waiting for your reaction to this. Waiting and watching like hawks. The thought made you shiver.

“Earth to Y/N,” Margy called. She looked a little disappointed that you’d spaced out and missed the most of her intel dump, but she understood. She always did. She began to run her fingers through your hair, braiding it and unbraiding it, as you spoke.

“It happened again,” you explained, swallowing down the pang of sickening pain in your heart. “Like, when it was just Jeyne I thought, oh, here’s this obstacle stopping Robb and me from being happy together, but now-“

“Now you know Jeyne wasn’t the problem,” Margaery finished. “Robb was.” You nodded.

“I feel betrayed,” You confided in Margy. “I feel like it’s somehow more offensive for it to happen twice. Like now I know I’m not good enough. And,” You hesitated, “I’m afraid.”

“You’ll live without him,” she told you softly. “You did before. And you’re beautiful, you can find someone who’s actually worth it, who treats you how you deserve to be treated.” You shook your head.

“I’m not afraid of being without him. I’m afraid because I feel-“ You knew what you wanted to say. You felt like a freak. Like you never _really_ fit into Robb’s picture-perfect suburban life, like you would never be accepted into the Stark family and have a wedding and a house and a family and a fence. You weren’t afraid of being without Robb, not at all. You were afraid that you wouldn’t fit into anyone’s life.

But how were you going to tell that to Margy? Margy grew up with a fence. She was wonderful, she was, but she never understood what it felt like to need a place to belong. To fight so hard to prove to someone that you’re worthy of love, because, without them, you were sure to be alone. So you didn’t tell her. You hugged her and excused yourself to take a long, hot shower. You dressed in flannel pajama pants and a thermal and went to class. You didn’t check your phone once. You doodled in the margins of your notebooks and scribbled it out in thick black ink.

When you arrived back at your dorm, you weren’t surprised to see Robb Stark leaning his forearm against your door, waiting for you. You shook your head and contemplated turning around, but he’d already seen you.

“Y/N,” he said as he paced towards you. He put his hands on your arms and gazed into your eyes with worry. You felt like you were going to throw up. You kept your head down and stayed silent. “Margy said you wouldn’t be here,” he murmured. Something about the nurturing tone in his voice pissed you off. You were always a sucker for people who spoke to you like they’d take care of you, but you were just now realizing how shallow it all was. An act.

“I wouldn’t be,” you growled. “If I didn’t live here. Move.” He knew better than to stand in your way. You’d kick him in the balls. You held up a key to your door, still feeling his presence a step or two behind you. “Keep moving.”  
“Y/N, please.” You turned to look at him. He took the opportunity to place his hands against the door, on either side of your head. You looked into his blue eyes, just for a second. Rookie mistake. You were suddenly lost in the middle of the ocean, drunk on the scent of his cologne, before you came to. When you snapped out of it, you realized you didn’t actually sense any emotion coming from him. His eyes were glistening like he was about to cry, but even with him standing right there as proof, you didn’t believe him. You didn’t believe he would really cry over you. If you were gone, he wouldn’t miss you. Years of love and desperation to keep Robb in your life had transformed into guarded mistrust overnight. You felt the corners of your lips twitch into a frown. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Just like that. Your stone-cold façade crumbled in seconds. Did his words soften you? No. You were livid. You felt yourself getting angry like you had so many times before, yet you were powerless to stop it. You had intended on walking away from Robb, but now you were back in that mental state where you couldn’t let him walk away, not without making a scene. Not without kicking and biting and scratching. Not without pulling every manipulation tactic in the book to make him stay and choose you. He did this. He just _had_ to press the matter. You lifted a hand to slap him and watched him flinch. Realization struck you as you slowly dropped your hand.

You were the problem. You were the reason Robb ran to other girls, why you couldn’t ever be secure in your place in his life, why you would never have a happy life with a fence. You felt tears well in your eyes, blurring your vision, as you turned around and opened your door. Robb tried to stop you, but you screamed at him to go away. And he did. Now here you were, snatching the car keys off your desk and storming out of the building, across the campus, through the resident parking lot with your arms wrapped around your frame. You were shivering violently but you didn’t turn back for a jacket. You had to leave. You had to get out of that stuffy dorm building, out of this campus and out of New York state. You had to get away from your shitty ex-boyfriend, his shitty new girl and their shitty fucking fence. You had to climb into your car and speed off in a cloud of dirt and blast your music along the highway and face what you really were. You had to.

It wasn’t until you hopped on the highway that you realized you had no idea where you were actually going, but you were too high on anger and recklessness to actually stop. You decided to head south, despite never having been past the New York border before. You blazed past exit signs and streetlights until the bleary headlights surrounding you disappeared and turned into an empty, rolling road. You felt yourself almost fading out of consciousness. The rush of emotion mellowed out just then; suddenly, your breathing was even.

There was something surreal about driving along the highway at night, you thought. The candy apple blur of occasional taillights running by, the way you couldn’t quite make out the lines along the road and you kind of had to just trust that nothing would jump out in the dark. Your vision began fading at the corners and you couldn’t tell if it was because your eyes were unaccustomed to the dark, or if you were actually becoming drowsy. Either way, your mind was completely empty save for the dull drone of the pumping bass, keeping your stream of consciousness at bay. You could feel it threatening to break through and seep into everything: the dark sky void of stars, the cracks in the highway rolling underneath you, the blinking light on your dashboard.

Your gas tank. Shit.

It took a minute for you to collect yourself as you became aware of your surroundings. You’d made it as far as halfway down the New Jersey Turnpike before you pulled your run-down Jeep into the nearest rest stop, the gravel kicking up under its tires and causing a cringe-worthy clanging sound against the base of the car. It was enough to make you release the gas until you were barely propelling yourself forward into the service station. You glanced around as you parked and took in the sight of the place.

The fuel dispensers were a faded, metallic white. No words or designs, only bolts tinged with a rusty orange color like they hadn’t been touched since they were installed. The awning above them was the same; unmarked and dingy. There wasn’t a worker in sight, and you couldn’t help but feel annoyed to have to step out of your car in New Jersey, of all places. Isn’t not having to pump their own gas their only saving grace?

You felt the familiar goosebumps rising on your skin as you hustled across the gravel and towards the little convenience store. The lights were off, but you yanked at the door anyway. Locked. Of course.

You scanned the area for another service station, and finally resigned yourself to walking. As your scuff slippers crunched along the gravel, you felt your fingers itching to dig into your pocket and grasp for your phone. To your relief, you managed to resist. The last thing you needed to do was watch yourself create accounts to cyberstalk your ex and call your roommate crying about it. That version of you was dead. You intended to keep it that way.

You took to watching your surroundings, instead. There were two highways going in opposite directions on either side of the rest stop, but both were empty with thickets of trees on either side. The moon was close to being full and looked ridiculously close tonight. You caught yourself straining to admire it through the branches when you bumped into something cold and metallic.

A sports car, you realized as you straightened up. Black and sleek with tinted windows. Whatever logo had been on it originally was pried off. It was a flawless vehicle, save for the smudge mark you’d left on the back with your clumsiness. You frowned at the mark and wiped it up quickly with your sleeve.

A glance upwards showed you the sign of life you’d been looking for. A liquor store with a flickering sign greeted you, the lights on inside and the figures of men scuffling around. It was no gas station, but it would be worth going inside to ask for a nearby, functioning station, if only to get warm for a couple of minutes. You considered drowning your sorrows in booze, but it seemed unwise given the fact that you were currently stranded in the middle of a highway in a foreign state. You pondered the practicality of the placement of such a store as you shuffled inside and allowed yourself a moment to take in the warmth.

When you looked up, you made eye contact with a pale-skinned man in his twenties, maybe. His sleek, platinum blond hair went past his shoulders and his chiseled face was covered in freckles. He was wearing a black tank top with a thin chain over it, his muscular arms flexing as he rubbed his hands together, toying with a ring on his finger as he tilted his head and looked at you curiously. His full eyebrows were drawn together, and you would have thought he looked like a magazine model, if it weren’t for the bloodstains on his cheek. You stood frozen.

“Rams-“ his deep voice started in an alarmed tone, but before he could finish, you heard a shiver-inducing sound as more blood splattered across the blond man’s cheek. He closed his eyes in exasperation as his warning went unyielded.

“There,” an accented voice rang out. You found your feet propelling you forward slowly, even though everything in your mind was screaming for you to turn around, turn around, _turn around_.

Behind the rows of caramel-brown liquor, a disheveled mess of brown waves came into view, teasing the briefest flash of a side profile as its leather-clad owner slammed the person to the floor with an unsavory splash and stood up to wipe his bloody blade against his jacket. You fought back a shiver as the man turned around, a mischievous look haunting his features. His lips were curled into a devilish smirk, his ice-blue eyes full of life. His bare, muscular chest was heaving, the streaks of blood glinting under the liquor store lighting with each deep breath. Underneath the jacket, you caught a glimpse of a tattoo, but your eyes darted straight back at his face as he looked from his angelic-looking companion, straight at you.

He licked his lips as he sauntered over, still catching his breath, and ran the back of his hand along the side of your face ever so gently. You felt your breath catch as you shifted your focus from his warm hands to his ice-cold eyes. He tilted his chin upwards as he spoke to you, his tone low and almost languid.

“Well, what have we here?” His accent sounded so pretty, he looked so pretty, and you barely had time to register the danger of the moment as he continued to speak. “In the wrong place at the wrong time, are you love?” He chuckled. “Not very lucky. No matter.” His fingers twisted their way into your hair as he leaned in just an inch from your lips. You felt his stubble brush against your chin as he stared meaningfully into your eyes.

“Why don’t you just turn around and walk back to your car and forget about what you just saw, hm?” He asked, releasing you with a smirk as he stepped back. You let out the breath of air you were holding and looked up at the pair, back to the body, and back to them.

“ _What?_ ” You asked incredulously, without even meaning to speak. You slapped a hand over your mouth. _Stupid, stupid, stupid_. You were ruining your chance to escape unharmed. The two men who had looked so self-assured a second ago wavered, and you watched the beautiful devil’s smirk drop into a frown. “I mean, yes, of course, I won’t say anything to anyone, I’m going now-“ you stumbled as you tried backing away, but it was too late. The man was on you in a second, slamming you painfully against an aisle, shaking it enough to make a bottle from the top shelf shatter onto the floor.

“Damon,” he growled, not taking his eyes off you. “Is this a dead zone?” You had no idea what the words meant, but the blond man, Damon, clearly did. His look was calculating as he answered.

“No, I mean, it shouldn’t be. Hold on,” he turned around and looked to the counter of the store where you noticed a man was standing silently, watching with wide eyes. _How had you not noticed him before?_ “You can move now, Gerald,” he said in a bored tone. You watched the once-frozen liquor store owner scramble underneath his counter, grabbing for a rifle as he made panicked sounds. He hadn’t even lifted his weapon over the counter when a knife flew across the room and pierced his heart. It was him, the one holding you. You hadn’t even noticed him throwing it.

“ _Ramsay_ ,” Damon said in a disapproving tone. “You can’t just-“ Ramsay lifted a hand though, silencing him, as he turned his attention back to you.

“And _you_ ,” Ramsay’s tone had gone from confident and careless to menacing in a second. You knew you fucked up. You just didn’t know how. Something told you he was going to give you the same treatment he’d given his friend on the floor there. His eyes were serious, daring even. “What the fuck are you?”

Ramsay didn’t get his answer, because no sooner had the question escaped his lips that your knee collided with his groin, causing him to groan, doubling over and releasing his hold on you. You bolted for the door, not looking back, but just as you reached the glass, your fingers inches from the door handle, you saw his menacing reflection behind you, bottle in hand. You had no time to react as he cracked it over the side of your head and you felt yourself slip out of consciousness.


	2. Pride and Prison Ink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it took so long for me to get this out; I must have stared at it for ages. I'm just in a mindset now where I'm trying to force myself to publish the exposition chapters so I can get to the action. I hope you guys like it! I'm always open to feedback :)

You woke up with fragments of a strange dream floating around in the darkness of your closed eyes. A highway, a liquor store, a singularly beautiful stranger, blood. It felt so real that you were almost expecting not to be in your own bed when you opened your eyes.

You weren’t. One look at your surroundings proved that without question. The ceiling was smooth, off-white stone and the cold ground pressed flush against your spine proved to be more of the same. You scrambled up and looked wildly around the room. It was a wide, spacious dungeon of sorts. A basement, perhaps, but everything seemed dated despite its pristine condition. The smooth ground didn’t have a single crack, the high, arched ceilings were expertly crafted. What caught your attention was the statues. Angels, maybe, or saints, with glorious wings behind them. You weren’t sure; you were never religious. A single flight of stairs led up the center of the room to a shut, grated door, the only thing in sight not made from stone.

You stood and shivered as your bare feet hit the cold floor. A dull pain throbbed at the side of your head, tender to the touch, and you quickly pulled your fingers away from whatever invisible bruise had been left on your scalp from last night. You found your slippers tossed carelessly to either side of you. They must have fallen off when you got thrown in here, you realized. You slipped them on, finding comfort in the warmth, and ran to the door, yanking as hard as you could, making the metal rattle loudly, despite knowing deep down that it wouldn’t open. Turning back around, you spotted a small, high window right where the wall met the ceiling. It was the only source of light in the entire room. A couple of feet away laid a flat, stone coffin. You had no time to waste. You had to make that jump. You started to run towards it when a slamming sound from the top of the steps stopped you dead in your tracks, causing you to tumble down the steps with a crash. Footsteps followed, and before you could process it, he was there.

He looked so tall from where you laid, bruised on the floor. You blinked as you propped yourself onto your elbows and looked at him. A wicked smirk played at his lips as he looked down at you, and you could sense that he liked looking down on people. You pushed yourself up, not wanting to give him the satisfaction. He seemed unbothered. He was dressed in black jeans and a matching long sleeve shirt pushed up to his elbows, revealing even more faded tattoos. He turned his blade, the same one from yesterday, over and over as he eyed you playfully.

“ _Ramsay_ ,” you sarcastically greeted the man who knocked you unconscious. His eyes lit up, but he maintained his slow, repetitive motions, spinning the blade tauntingly as he spoke down to you.

“Y/N.” You had almost forgotten about that damned accent. His voice was even, but a hidden cheerfulness gnawed at you. Like he was playing a game.

“How-“ you started, but no sooner had you uttered the word that he whipped out a phone from his pocket, scrolling through it as the screen illuminated his face. You felt the emptiness in your pocket where your phone had been resting, ignored, just last night.

“Your friends miss you terribly,” he informed you with a sick smile. “Your boyfriend’s concerned about you, too. Long way from home, aren’t you, pet?” Your face flushed as you thought about what he could’ve read on your phone. It had a password on it, but you didn’t want to imagine what information he found out about you just from the messages on your lock screen.

You rushed to your feet, practically slamming yourself against the bars as you tried to snatch your phone. He yanked it just out of reach. You were about to say something else when a deep voice rang out.

“Enough, Ramsay,” another man called. To your surprise, Ramsay silenced himself and tucked your phone back into his pocket, gazing up expectantly while the other man emerged from the shadows.

He was a tall, middle-aged man with a straight nose and a straight posture. His hair was receding, his brows pulled together ever so slightly as his blue eyes gave you a calm, measuring look. Slight lines on his face gave away his age. He held himself almost regally, with his shoulders back and his hands folded. He was dressed in a formal type of suit; it was simple, yet showing of his stature. He seemed almost trustworthy. You softened to him. While Ramsay was sick and sadistic, this man looked far calmer in comparison. You were grateful for the intrusion. Ramsay seemed annoyed at the easiness that overtook you, but you ignored him to look at his companion, peeling yourself from the bars.

“My name is Roose Bolton,” he introduced himself as you slowly padded over to him, hands grasping the bars like a prisoner. “I assume you’ve heard of me.” He seemed assured that you had, but you shook your head meekly. This seemed to surprise him, and you watched his expression grow annoyed. “I don’t play games, girl. I don’t know what house shields us but every house has heard of the country’s biggest network of stewards.” Pride dripped into his otherwise irritated tone as he claimed his title. He seemed to snap out of it, though, as he stared at the blank expression on your face. “These words mean nothing to you?” He asked dubiously. You gave him a small shrug. “And yet, you are immune to compulsion,” he mused to himself, before turning to the younger man. Ramsay stood at attention, waiting for a command. His face was serious as the older man addressed him. “Find out what you can about the girl,” he demanded. “Report back to me.” With a final curious glance at you, he turned around and marched back up the steps. Ramsay’s eyes followed him up, and he didn’t look away as the doors slammed once again. You could practically hear yourselves breathing.

“He’s your dad?” You asked and Ramsay’s gaze snapped back to you.  
  
“How would you know that?” He questioned with the quirk of a brow.

“You look at him like you want him to be proud of you. I didn’t take you for the type who follows directions but you follow his. I have a feeling no one else would tolerate your insubordination,” he smirked at that as he waited for you to continue. You swallowed and tried to finish your sentence. “…Like last night. You killed the shopkeeper. Those weren’t your orders. And your eyes. You kind of look like him only… more chaotic, I guess.” You finished and almost sighed in relief. You don’t know what possessed you to speak at length to the man who knocked you unconscious last night, and you were alarmed to find that you felt oddly familiar with him rather than afraid. As if you were old friends or something. Ramsay was quick to prove you wrong as he leaned against the bars.

“Sounds like you have it all figured out, love. You seemed awfully relieved not to have to deal with someone so chaotic. Let me warn you, though. My father is ten times worse than I am. Don’t believe me? Get on his bad side. What he'll do to you is far worse than what I'll do to get answers.” You giggled, which seemed to vex him.

“You’re jealous. You don’t like that I looked comfortable around him. What, you want to be daddy’s heir so you can have all the respect?”

“You’re looking awfully comfortable right now, love,” he quipped with a mischievous grin, eyes darting to where you rested against the bars just inches from his face. You hadn't realized how close you were. You felt your face warm as you straightened up, crossing your arms over your chest as Ramsay laughed at you. Before you could deal with any more of his teasing, your eyes fell on his fingers wrapped around the bars. A black ring sat on his finger with the symbol of a man hanging in an X shape embossed on it.  
  
“Your ring,” you said, dismissing the topic for a new one. “It’s the same as your tattoo.”

“Observant,” he said as he pulled the collar of his shirt down to show you. You reached over without thinking and pressed a finger to the inked skin. It was firm with muscle, and tingled with electrifying warmth, but you couldn’t dwell on that because as your fingers brushed against his tattoo, the ink shifted. Your eyes widened as he spoke. “It’s a flayed man. You know, most people know about the dr- _what?_ ” He caught your shocked expression and looked down, watching the ink on his tattoo swirl circles around your finger, shapeless. He slapped your hand away, the ink settling back into the flayed man as you felt the sting of his slap on your wrist. His seemingly angry expression betrayed confusion as he bolted up the stairs and left you there, alone.


	3. Hotels and Hostage Situations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my darlings! I want to thank you all so much for interacting with this fic. I loved reading your comments, and I had seriously almost given up on this piece when I checked and saw a recent comment which inspired me to keep writing. I hope you enjoy reading this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it. As always, please don't be shy to leave feedback. Love y'all!

It had been hours that you were left alone in the dungeon. You watched the light trickling in from the small window dim down and then die out altogether as night fell. You were hungry. You needed a bathroom, you needed a shower. You passed the time by climbing onto the flat stone coffin, reaching as high as you could on tiptoes, and even then only seeing a small glimpse of grass before losing your balance. You tried jumping, hoping to grab ahold of the ledge, only to smack against the wall or end up crumpled on the floor. You tried opening the flat stone coffin to no avail. Damn your lack of upper body strength.

Besides the coffin and the high window, you found nothing useful in the creepy, high-ceilinged white prison. You took to clanging the barred doors as loudly as you could, and when you grew tired of that, sat at the top of the steps and leaned your head against them. One of the tall angel statues seemed to stare at you, its vacant eyes following you no matter where in the room you stood.

“Fuck are you looking at?” You asked it finally. It did not answer, but as if answering your prayers, you heard the door at the top of the stairs open once more. You dared to turn around, half-expecting Roose or Ramsay again, but instead saw a tall, young man with short, choppy black hair and kind almond eyes working a key into the barred door.

“I’m Ben,” he offered as he pulled the door open.

“Another Bolton?” You asked softly.

“Not quite; I work for them.” Cautiously, you stood. “C’mon, you probably need the bathroom or something, right? Let’s go.” You trusted him immediately, and even if you didn’t you did not want to stay a second longer in this place. Pushing yourself to your feet, you walked up the stairs with Ben following a couple of steps behind you. You pushed open a heavy set of wooden doors at the top of the stairs, leading you down a dimly lit yellow hallway into…

“A _church_?” You questioned, looking at Ben. He laughed at your tone.

“What, did you think it was a dungeon?” You stared at him blankly as his smile dropped. “Damn, you- okay, listen. I know Ramsay can be…”

“Terrifying?” You supplied. He laughed again, walking you across the sanctuary towards the main door. “Well, yeah. And don’t get me wrong, he is terrifying, to the wrong people, but we all serve a common goal here. It’s not often we come across some random girl immune to compulsion wandering around the New Jersey Turnpike in the dead of the night. We had to make sure you’re not dangerous.”

“Dangerous to who?” You questioned blankly as he pushed open the doors to the outside, the night air making you shiver. Damn. Had you been locked up for a whole day?

“That’s another thing I don’t get,” Ben said, looking at you curiously. You noticed a sleek black SUV with tinted windows waiting across the street and your heart rate quickened. “You’ve lived in New York for how long now?”

“My whole life,” you replied softly, hoping Ben wouldn’t notice the way you slowed your pace. He held your elbow loosely as you walked, seemingly unaware of your hesitation.

“Right, you’re one hundred percent American and you’ve never heard of the Boltons. It’s weird. Like you live in a bubble. And your college just happens to be one of the only dead zones in the country.” He opened the door to the backseat, revealing smooth leather seats and the scent of black licorice hanging in the air. You briefly considered bolting (ha, Bolton) but you knew deep down that wherever you went, they would find you, and that your best bet would be to follow Ben and cooperate so that maybe they wouldn’t feel the need to send Ramsay after you anymore.

You scoped out the back two rows and made sure there was no one else there before climbing into the second row and relaxing. Ben climbed in next to you, pulling a gun from the back of his pants and training it on you before shrugging apologetically. _Good thing I didn’t try to run, then_ , you thought to yourself as the driver sped off. You cleared your throat before speaking.

“Where are you taking me?” You asked. You didn’t expect a straightforward answer, but you received none at all.

“Grunt is mute, he couldn’t answer you if he wanted to,” Ben responded. “We’re taking you to a safe house. The Boltons own it, I’ll be staying there with you.” You hummed.

“And… Ramsay?” You choked out his name, but for some reason felt almost shy saying it out loud. Like saying it would expose the fact that you’d been thinking about him nonstop.

“He has a lot of places around here. I’m sure he won’t have a reason to stay there,” Ben said with a slight frown, like he wasn’t sure at all what Ramsay would feel like doing. You didn’t know Ramsay that well, but you understood the feeling and remained quiet for the rest of the ride, leaning your head against the glass and watching the road zoom by beneath you.

The car eventually pulled down a long drive to a modern looking, square shaped building. It was partly black and partly wooden, like a contemporary cabin, with wide windows showing the inside. The lighting was a bright yellow color, and behind the house you caught a glimpse of a pine forest isolating you from the rest of the world. Grunt let you and Ben off in front of the building before circling around to park, and you stared up in awe.

“I need to get kidnapped more often,” you mused, and Ben snorted in reply, tucking his gun back into the waistband of his pants as you hustled up the steps to the front door.

You barely had time to admire the beautiful furniture before Ben led you upstairs to a bathroom, pointing you to the towels and toiletries before leaving you to yourself for a moment. You took your time freshening up, sinking to the floor of the shower as you let the water run over you. _I should probably be more freaked out by this situation_ , you thought to yourself. But you couldn’t bring yourself to care. Growing up in the same little corner of New York state with the most boring, predictable life imaginable had led you to crave excitement in any form. When there was no drama, you created it for yourself, and this… well, this was drama. You let your muscles relax under the hot water and pretended you were in a hotel, not a hostage situation.

“ _While you stood over the pavement, I was biting the curb. Sick entertainment but I’ll bet it feels good when you’re coming down,_ ” you sang to yourself as you wrapped a towel around your body and peaked out of the room. “Ben?”

You didn’t hear a response so you dared to leave the bathroom, walking down the hall to your right with a slight dripping of water dampening the gray floors behind you. At the end of the hall, you found a bedroom. You tossed your old clothes into a hamper before searching the drawers for something new to wear. You found an oversized black dress shirt that was most definitely made for men, which you slipped over your frame. No sooner had you finished buttoning it up than your head started spinning and your vision blurred as if under the influence, and you finally realized how exhausted you’d been. You curled under the sheets of the bed, not bothering to turn the lights off, and drifted into a dreamless sleep.


End file.
